At my work, one of our general neighbors is relocating. A jeans store is moving, and they're handing out notice cards like candy.

Eye candy.

They feature an image they got from Lee, I think (correction: Levi's) -- it's a very shapely lady's posterior, utterly uncovered save for a single pocket "stitched" in magic marker on her right cheek. Quite fetching, I dare say.

It's been the source of great amusement.

Recently, someone commented that I certainly must be enjoying the card. I replied that I had seen too much of it -- I was starting to get bored with the image, and would appreciate some variety.

Well, not exactly. That was the sentiment I intended. That wasn't precisely the words I said.

"Eh, it's all right, but now I want to see the front pocket."

About half a second after I said that, I realized precisely what I had said -- and what the implication of it could be. I had inadvertently said something far, far dirtier than I intended.

At that point, I had two alternatives. I could stammer and blush and apologize profusely, explaining what I really meant, and I didn't mean anything that crass, and I was exceptionally sorry for any offense I risked.

Alternately, I could double down. I could continue the line of thought, pretend that I meant it all the time, and just run with that theme.

Of course, I was at work, and my employer (Very Big Company, comfortably in the top half of the Fortune 500) has a very, very strict sexual harassment policy. People have been fired for less.

The question was never in doubt.

Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

"Oh, so that's why they call it a 'button-fly!'"

(No, I'm not going to explain what that meant. In fact, I'm going to deny that I had any specific meaning in mind, and let your own dirty minds decide the meaning -- if it has any.)

Other men flirt with death. Me, I walk up, grab a bony butt-cheek in each hand, and yell "how's it going, Death?"